4. Four
Four
Weston
Her hand brushes mine.
Soft. Warm. Intentional.
For a second, I stop breathing, afraid that any movement might shatter this moment, might remind her of all the reasons she's spent two years avoiding being alone with me.
Rain drums against the shelter roof in a steady rhythm, the scent of wet leaves and distant lightning thick in the air. Outside, the world is chaos—wind bending trees, water turning the trail to mud—but here, in this small wooden shelter, there's only us. Junie doesn't move away. She just looks up at me with those big, stubborn eyes like she's daring me to make the next move.
I've waited two damn years for this.
"Junie…" My voice is low, hoarse. "There's a lot I should've said back then."
"You mean before or after you slapped cuffs on me?" There's challenge in her voice, but something else too—a vulnerability that wasn't there before.
"I didn't want to arrest you," I say, and I mean every word. "I hated it."
"Didn't stop you," she says, but her tone's quieter now, less accusatory.
"I was doing my job. Following orders. And afterward…" I pause, rub a hand along the back of my neck where tension always settles when I'm struggling for words. "I didn't know how to talk to you. Didn't think you'd listen. Hell, maybe I didn't deserve for you to."
Her lips press together, creating that little line of concentration between her brows that appears when she's puzzling something out. She doesn't respond.
Rain continues to pound the roof, creating a cocoon of sound around us. In the distance, lightning illuminates the grove of saplings for a brief, electric moment. The memory tree grove. Her trees, in a way.
I step closer, slow and careful, until there's barely a breath between us. The space between us crackles louder than the storm, charged with two years of sidelong glances and careful distance.
"You should know something," I say, voice rough. "I didn't stop thinking about you. Not one damn day."
A flash of surprise crosses her face, quickly replaced by something harder to read. Junie swallows, eyes flicking to my mouth, then back to my eyes. Her lashes are wet, and so is her sweater, clinging to every curve like a second skin. A droplet of rain slides from her hair down her neck, disappearing beneath her collar, and I have to clench my fists to keep from tracing its path with my fingertips.
"I thought you hated me," she whispers, and the vulnerability in those five words nearly breaks me.
I shake my head slowly, deliberately, holding her gaze. "I've never hated you. I've just wanted you so bad it felt like punishment."
For a second, everything stills. Even the rain seems to pause between heartbeats.
Then she grabs the front of my shirt and pulls.
And I'm gone.
Our mouths crash together like the thunder behind us, all heat and frustration and years of unsaid things. She tastes like rain and fire and something I've been starving for. I cup her face with both hands, thumbing the line of her jaw, and she melts into me like she was made to fit against my body. Her hands slide up my chest, around my neck, fingers threading through my hair and tugging in a way that makes me groan against her mouth.
I back her against the wooden post of the shelter, lifting her slightly so we're perfectly aligned, her softness pressed against my hardness. She makes a small, needy sound that nearly undoes me, and I explore her mouth more deeply, tasting, claiming, apologizing.
When I break the kiss, it's only because I want to look at her—need to see her face, to know this is real and not another dream that will leave me aching when I wake.
She's breathing hard. So am I.
Her lips are swollen, eyes dark with desire, cheeks flushed. She's never been more beautiful than in this moment, wild and disheveled and looking at me like she's seeing me for the first time.
And when she speaks, it's barely a whisper, a confession meant only for me.
"You're not the man I thought you were."
I brush a damp strand of hair from her cheek, letting my fingers linger against the warmth of her skin. "You have no idea who I am."
She lets out a shaky breath, her hands still resting against my chest where she can surely feel my heart hammering. "Then show me."
And if we weren't standing in a public shelter at the edge of a forest in the middle of a thunderstorm, I'd do exactly that. I'd lay her down and worship every inch of her until she forgot every reason she ever had to hate me.
But I'm a gentleman. Mostly.
So I kiss her again—slower this time, deeper—my hands framing her face like she's something precious, which she is. I pour everything I can't say yet into that kiss, and promise myself that tonight isn't the end of this.
It's the beginning.